


Santa's Little Helper

by JaneDavitt



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-12
Updated: 2010-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair in costume isn't a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa's Little Helper

Jim looked in the mirror, a man confronted with his worst nightmare. "No."

"Jim, you don't have a choice." Blair cleared his throat. "I think it suits you."

"Why am I the elf?" Jim snarled. "How come you get to be Santa?"

Blair nervously adjusted his white beard. "Because last year you scared the kids to death, but they loved me?"

"I didn't scare them!"

"Jim, when you have kids telling Santa they want toothbrushes and for people to be kind, not Barbie dolls and computer games, I think there's a good chance they're intimidated."

Jim stared at him, his jaw clenched, his eyes icy. Blair sighed. "Yeah, that right there, that's the look that made little Suzy have an accident sitting on your lap. Lighten up, Jim. I'm Santa and you're my elf, so deal."

Without thinking, he playfully swatted Jim's ass with the final word. Not the first time he'd done that, but Jim had always been wearing pants before; today Blair's palm met firm flesh covered in thin green tights and nothing else. Blair jerked his hand back and then, unable to help himself, replaced it, cupping a cheek with a reverential appreciation of the muscular curve.

"Sandburg!" Jim yelped.

Blair leaped back a foot, his face as scarlet as the jaunty hat atop Jim's head. "Shit! Jim, I'm sorry, God, I don't know what made me -- Uhm, why are you going commando?"

"Shorts bunched up under the tights," Jim said hoarsely.

"Oh. Well, I'm really sorry for uh, for…" Blair bravely edged in front of Jim, and gave him an anxious glance. "You know. The groping. It won't happen again. Ever."

Jim was flushed, but with embarrassment not affront. He glanced down and Blair's gaze followed.

Oh. Oh.

"Don't touch me again," Jim pleaded. "I'll lose it."

The clean, strong lines of Jim's erection, straining the tights interestingly, took Blair's breath away until a rap on the door as someone calling out that the children were waiting made him give an anguished whimper. "Jim, man, you can lose it with me later if that's what you want -- and I want it too -- but right now, right now --"

"I'm sorry," Jim said wretchedly, "but I wasn't expecting it. Your hand…God, so hot."

"Temperature or -- never mind," Blair said hastily. "Think about something gross and get it under control."

"Can't," Jim said flatly. "I'll just take care of it. Won't take a minute."

"We don't _have_ a minute."

Blair dropped to his knees, tugged down his beard with one hand and Jim's tights with the other, and dealt with the problem in the tidiest way possible, his own arousal firmly pushed aside. Not the time, not the place.

"Thanks, Santa," Jim said when he'd gotten his breath back. He smiled ruefully. "Guess I made the naughty list, huh?"

"I think we both did," Blair muttered, grabbing a water bottle to rinse his mouth with. "Next year, we're reindeer, okay?"


End file.
